


Your Mother, Our Mother, Me

by Anonymous



Category: Bates Motel (2013)
Genre: Alex Romero (mentioned), Angst, Arguing, Baking, Blood and Violence, Bonding, Casual Sex, Childhood, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Domesticity, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Family Drama, Family Meals, Fluff, Growing Up, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jealousy, Madeline Loomis (mentioned), Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Mother (Bates Motel), Mother too, Norma bakes her problems away, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Psychological Horror, Psychological Trauma, Sam Bates (mentioned), School, Some hurt/comfort, Watching Movies Together, oh Norman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 22:08:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11609937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: She comes into the world well after Norman, born in the dark and out of a desperate fear.-The evolution of Mother. A one-shot exploring Norman's childhood growing up with a dark protector and the three parts that make up her identity.





	Your Mother, Our Mother, Me

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all!  
> I've been working on this for a few weeks now. I'm so excited to finally be able to post this story. I wanted to write something exploring Mother's identity, growing up with Norman, and her relationships. Just as there three parts to Norman (Norma, Norman, and Mother), there are also three parts that make up Mother. 
> 
> If you have any questions, please feel free to ask. I tried to make everything as clear as I possibly could while still showing the messiness of mental illness.
> 
> Massive thanks to my beta for betaing this despite not having seen Bates Motel. She kept me sane through the arduous task of writing this story.
> 
> Another massive thanks to worstmissionever on Tumblr for awesome betaing and discussion. She was incredibly helpful and her insight was very valuable.
> 
> Enjoy!

PART I

She comes into the world well after Norman, born in the dark and out of a desperate fear. But she knows who she is. She knows her purpose. She has always existed. Always been Mother. 

She wraps her arms around the small boy huddled against her. "It's okay, Norman," she whispers. "It's gonna be okay."

Norman buries his wet face in her chest. She loves him instantly. She knows they are the same.

Outside, a storm rages but Mother is not afraid. She has four tender years of Norman's memories and her own more mature mind. They're hidden away in a closet, placed there by a panicked woman ( _Norma Bates_ , Mother learns. _Mommy_ ) who Mother doesn't believe is 'just fine, honey, don't worry'. There's yelling, a crash, the sound of Norma screaming and breaking into sobs.

Mother covers Norman's ears. 

_I wish I were bigger,_ Norman thinks.

Mother makes herself comfortable in their shared headspace. She doesn't have to look long before she finds it, the desire to get rid of his father, to protect his mother. It's there. New and real as she is, wings still damp but already fluttering tentatively, testing their ability to move. 

Mother kisses Norman's soft hair. She knows her purpose. She pulls away from Norman, brushes his tears away, and with them the memory of this night. He curls up in their headspace and sleeps. Mother takes over, and while Norman's eyes go blank, she finds him in the dark, warm space of that locked place in his mind and comforts him as only she can. 

She is Mother and she loves him instantly. 

 

PART II

She gets to know their brother over a noticeably cracked cereal bowl. Equally noticeable is the big bruise on their mother's cheek, but no one mentions it. Norman eats his cereal and it tastes like mush in his mouth. Mother reminds herself she has never technically had cereal before today but she can't enjoy it, not when Dylan is kicking Norman under the table and making snide remarks about where Sam is. Their mother, who picks at her eggs beside Norman, urges them both to eat with a flat tone that twists Norman's insides. He eats dutifully even though the cereal is hard to swallow. Mother thinks she is content not to have cereal again for a while.

Their mother places a hand on Norman's knee under the table. Another ill-timed kick from Dylan and Mother is about to urge Norman to douse him in left-over milk but their mother is out of her chair in an instant. "Don't you ever hurt your brother again!" she screams, voice loud enough to ensnare even Dylan's attention. 

Dylan stares. He shrugs. "Whatever." 

"Dylan," she says, voice low on a warning. "Apologize to your brother. Right now."

Dylan locks eyes with Norman and exhales through his nose. Norman's memories supply an identical image of their mother doing the same put-upon kind of sigh. 

Then he says, "I'm sorry you're such a wuss, _Norman_." 

"I am not!" Norman snaps, but their mother has reached across the table to pinch Dylan's ear and his voice gets lost in the commotion. 

-

Mother is in awe of Norma Bates. And it doesn't take long for her to see where her intense love for Norman comes from. It's in every glance Norma gives, all warmth and poise and gentleness over a coloring book or piano keys.

She learns to take abuse for Norman and she takes it for their mother too. They are the happiness in the utter hell that is Mother's existence. 

Some days, their mother rouses Norman from sleep with gentle hands and carries him into the kitchen. He's nearly six and too old to be carried but he lets her do it. She sits him down at the kitchen table, makes him breakfast with too-slow movements. 

Mother sees the pained face Norma makes when she sits down beside her son. Norman doesn't. Mother would like to keep it that way. 

"Where's Dylan?" Norman asks. 

Their mother sighs, then gives a watery smile. "He's off with some friends, honey." 

Mother hates the relief that courses through her; Dylan is just a brat. He can be forgiven and she's seen Norman marvel at his strength and Norma love him distantly in their infrequent moments of normalcy together, when he's not putting up a front around Sam, or when she thinks he just might give her the unconditional devotion she wants from him. The kind of love she deserves. Mother regards their older brother with caution and tenuous adoration, loves him only reluctantly. She's seen the way he looks with a bloody lip and envies his poker face, his survival instinct. He's not Norma or Norman but he's still hers. 

Norman moves on the way children do.

"And Daddy?" 

Norma stops with her cup halfway to her mouth. Mother can feel the way she tenses, knows the searching pause and following head shake intimately, knows the strain of the smile she gives Norman. 

"I— uh," their mother tries. Exhales. "I don't know, sweetie. I don't know." 

The rush of anger is unbidden and too intense for a child. It whitens Norman's knuckles, makes the fingers of his free hand twitch beside his plate. Both Mothers rush to console him. One takes his hand in hers and mistakes his expression for worry. Her words go ignored but the sound of her voice and her soft touch help to soothe him nonetheless. The other mother works her magic in his mind. It's her own fault, she realizes. While she should feel safe knowing the monster she married is out of the house, fear grips her at the very thought of him. She has learned to spin that fear into anger, using it to nurture her own instinct to protect Norman. But it's too much, it's all too much, and she pushes it down.

It helps. It does. But—

Norman has his own anger. 

It's raw in its immaturity, but real and very much justified. 

Again, Mother finds it, the unrefined desire to kill in the name of protecting the person he loves more than anything. 

_Oh, such a good boy,_ Mother thinks. _Someday. I promise. I'll protect us until then._

"Okay, Norman?"

"Yes, Mother," Norman says. 

"Oh, Norman!" their mother squeals. "This'll be fun!" Neither Norman nor Mother have any idea what she's talking about but they bask in her affection anyway, leaning into her when she wraps an arm around Norman's shoulders. "Why don't you go pick out a movie and I'll meet you in my room, okay?" 

Norman does and goes to sit on her neatly-made bed. Mother squirms internally at being in this room, so soon after last night, but she buries the fear and nausea for Norman's sake. There's a big television here and it looks much brighter with the morning sun through the windows. Different. Peaceful. When their mother joins them, all smiles and bright clothes and sun in her hair, Mother breathes out her tension and bids Norman to slide closer to her. 

"What did you pick?" Norma asks, retrieving the tape to examine the title. She reads it, then sets the movie down with an amused look. "You want to watch Jane Eyre again?" 

Norman nods. 

"Well, okay," their mother says, shrugging. But Norman can tell it makes her happy to see him interested in things like that. His memories already hold a multitude of old black and white films, films Mother has never seen but will some day. Not even halfway through the film, she decides she likes it. That, and the way Norma mouths along with the lines and the absent play of her fingers on Norman's arm. 

Norma is her mother too, and she's caught between a child-like love for her and a more practical kind of admiration. She knows her purpose after all, and it's no different from Norma's: to love and protect Norman at all costs. 

Norma shifts, a pained expression flitting across her features. 

"What's wrong, Mommy?"

Norma glances at him, then toward the screen, and back again. "Hmm?"

"What's wrong?" 

"Nothing's wrong, honey. We're fine. We're watching a movie."

It's a big lie, one Mother can read clearly and one that stirs frustration in Norman's heart. But it can be ignored. Their mother is doing what she always does. Shielding Norman. 

"But you and Daddy are fighting," Norman surmises. 

Mother's pretty sure she and Norma both have twin flashes of panic, but they recover quickly. Norma's eyes soften on concern and she turns to face Norman, movie forgotten, and smoothes back his hair with a cool, gentle hand. "Oh, Norman, it's—" She sighs, pondering for a moment. "I don't want you to worry about that, okay? There's nothing to worry about." Her lips brush his forehead and Norman relaxes a little, letting her hug him to her chest. "We're like the same person. We'll always have each other. And nothing bad can really happen to us when we're together, understand?" Norman nods but Norma doesn't respond. For a few minutes, there's the sound of the film in the background and their mother's steady heartbeat. "We will get through this," she whispers, almost to herself. "You're the only good I ever got. And you're all I need."

-

From the sidelines, she watches Norman grow. As he ages, he's harder to talk to, and a practical part of her understands. The two of them function differently than other people do and they must present as one part of one person in order to be accepted. 

Once, when Norman is eight, they end up accidentally using the word 'we' at dinner. Because as much as Mother thinks of herself as her own person, 'we' is what feels most right in the end— both she and Norman acknowledged at the same time. 

Norman wants to eat his spaghetti the way their mother does, twirling a forkful of noodles on a spoon. He's clumsy with it, at first, and when he manages to spin the fork without knocking it off the spoon, it winds up a too-big ball that helps nothing. Norman eyes it dubiously. In front of him, Dylan grins and slurps noodles. There's sauce on his cheek. 

Norma rolls her eyes at her eldest son— who does these things just to be disruptive— and turns to Norman.

"Do you need some help, honey?"

"No, we're fine."

Norman stuffs the ball of noodles into his mouth and chews slowly. He explains away the expression Norma makes as annoyance at his messiness, but Mother knows her. Knows the truth. She's confused by the 'we', by the two of them together, without her. Mother can't help the spike of pain that goes through her at this realization. 

Oh well. 

Mother guides Norman in his next bite and they end up with something neater, more manageable. Something more like what she's seen Norma do, and Dylan when he's not being dumb.

Norman holds it up for Norma's inspection. "Look, I did it!"

The tension in their mother's brow smoothes over and her face softens on a smile. "Great job. It looks delicious." 

And then, with a devilish light in her eyes, Norma leans forward and takes the bite for herself. 

Norman cries, "Mom!" even as he laughs. Then he sticks his own fork in Norma's plate and dinner dissolves from there in the best way. 

Dylan pulls his own plate toward him. "You people are weird."

 _This_ is the kind of thing Mother wants for Norman. Home cooked meals and laughter and normality. For their mother to smile at Norman like he hung the stars. 

Any disruption of that gleaming world cannot be tolerated, at least not for long. Not from Dylan, not from Sam, and definitely not from Norman, who is the embodiment of perfection for Norma— for Mother— as much as she is for him. 

So, for Norman's benefit, she indulges less with her own social life and more with erasing every bad thing from Norman's mind that doesn't involve spending time with their mother. A good mother protects her child even when it costs her. She learns this from Norma and holds it close. 

At night, when the house should be silent with sleep, Sam and Norma scream at each other. But Norman is unaware, despite being newly fifteen and such a smart, observant boy by now. Because at the first sign of trouble, she'd taken over. Urged Norman to dress for bed and block out the sound with headphones. She'd crossed the room in the dark to turn the doorknob and quietly push the door closed. Satisfaction at her quick thinking and minimal noise faded when she turns to find Norman propped up on his elbows, staring into the dark. At her. 

"Mother? Why are you here?"

She can't help but give a little smile. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay." Norman reaches up to pull out an earbud but Mother stops him with a hand on his wrist. She pushes him back down and pulls the covers up to his chest. "Goodnight, Norman."

She brushes her lips over his forehead. He sleeps. 

-

For the most part, she tunes out Norman's school days. They're boring and filled with people she doesn't like. However, today is different. A feminine voice not belonging to any of his friends makes Norman turn from his open locker. Mother stirs to watch, to try to take over if need be. 

Turns out she's a friend of a friend of a friend. Or something like that. "Cassandra," she supplies. The petite blonde is dressed in a skirt too short for the weather outside. With delicate, expressive features and big hazel eyes, she's gorgeous. Mother is instantly suspicious. 

"Oh, hi," Norman responds politely. "I think we had Algebra together last year."

Cassandra shrugs, looking vaguely embarrassed. "I blocked most of that from my memory."

Norman laughs. He notices the little curls in her long hair.

Mother is not surprised. Frustrated, sure. Stupid, awkward teenagers. Of course her son would fixate on anything with breasts and light hair. But while the interest is there, so easily stirred by anything these days, there's the hesitation she and their mother have worked so to cultivate. This girl, whoever she is, cannot be trusted. And part of Norman is smart enough to remember that.

"Anyway," Cassandra continues. "I was wondering if maybe you wanted to hang out—"

Mother tunes out her drivel. She's attractive, sure, and maybe if she didn't have Norman to worry about, she'd pay more attention to her. But, ultimately, she and Norman have higher things to move on to.

Norman's mind however, is swimming with words like 'cute' and 'like a date, um, maybe' and 'pizza'. A flurry of images pass through his mind, some of which are not concerned with pizza at all. Mother blames Norman's youth. He is, ultimately, a nice, polite boy. One who loves his mother more than absolutely anything the world— or this girl— has to offer. 

"That sounds very nice," he says carefully. "But unfortunately I can't."

Cassandra shifts. Smiles to hide her discomfort. "You're not interested. It's cool, don't worry about it." And she's down the hall before Norman can say anything. There's something like an apology on his lips but it goes unsaid. He retrieves his books, shuts his locker door, and heads off to his last class of the day with an odd sense of dissatisfaction. 

Norman feels better by the time he gets home. He deposits his schoolbag on the table. The house is a little chilly but he hangs up his jacket anyway. From another room, Bobby Darin's music plays and Mother is pleased to note the open cookbook and baking ingredients on the counter. 

"Mom?"

"Hi, honey," their mother calls as she rounds the corner. She deposits a laundry basket on the couch and comes into the kitchen to wash her hands. "I'm making a cake."

"What's the occasion?" 

Norma eyes him dubiously. "Since when do I need an occasion to make a cake?" The subject dropped, she moves to stand in front of the cookbook and retrieves her apron from where it's draped on the countertop.

"Let me get that for you," he says, and steps forward to tie her apron strings in a neat bow. His eyes fall to the curve of her waist, trace outward over her hips. His fingers twitch. Mother has the quick sense to intervene before he does something stupid— a mental nudge and he's stepped back, leaning against the table. Touching their mother without invitation or warning definitely qualifies as stupid. Shame and anxiety swirl at the edges of Norman's mind.

"Where's dad?" he asks, because the house is quiet and Norma is in a smiley mood but that could mean anything. At least it's already better than yesterday when he came home to find their mother curled on the couch with ruined mascara. 

"Hell if I know," she replies, and smashes an egg against the side of the bowl. Norman cringes. After a moment, they both relax. "Oops." She reaches into the bowl to pick out splinters of eggshell, piling them into her palm. "How was school?"

"It was good," Norman says. Then thinks he should elaborate to fill the space between them. "A girl told me she liked me today. Asked me to be her boyfriend."

Their mother freezes.

_Stupid boy._

Still poised over the mixing bowl, she asks, "Oh? And what did you say, Norman?"

"I, uh—" Norman puts his hands in his pockets. Shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "Well I told her no, of course, Mother." He shrugs and chuckles, training his gaze on Norma's pursed lips and the stray lock of hair against the side her face. "I mean, I wasn't really interested. And as you've said I should be focusing on school." 

A smile spreads over Norma's face and relief brings her to life again. "Oh good." Hands outstretched, she walks to the sink to wash away eggshell and yolk, then dries them on a towel. "That's good, Norman." Norma moves to stand in front of him and her hand is cool under his chin, her smile affectionate. "You're too young to be tied down like that. You should focus on being a kid. You have your whole life to find somebody special."

Mother notes the way Norman melts, and she is struck with pride for both of them. She files away the brightness of Norma's eyes, the shape of her mouth, the unguarded tenderness in the sweep of her thumb on Norman's jaw. Always good to make note of things that work on her boy. 

He smiles back at her. "Yes, Mother."

Norma pats his cheek in approval. Then she's back at the counter, measuring out baking powder like everything is fine. And if it isn't fine yet, it will be with vanilla cake. 

"I mean," their mother continues. "I didn't meet your father until I was twenty." 

Mother tries to reign in her feelings about that. Bile rises in Norman's throat. 

Norma glances over her shoulder at him, soft, conspiratorial smile in place. "And then a year later I had you."

-

 _It's just the heat,_ Norman thinks. The sound of the movie he'd put on blurs and fades into the background. The sun shines white-hot and offending through his blinds. _That's why he's so angry. That's why I'm so— so tired._

Downstairs, there's a crash. _Mom!_ A jolt of panic goes through him, startling when his body feels so heavy, but he only manages to shift his head on the pillow before blackness swirls at the edges of his vision. He needs to protect her. He needs to help her. She's so sweet, she doesn't deserve that kind of treatment. No one should have to endure that. He wonders how it could have escalated to this point, where it had come from and, simultaneously, how he could have possibly let such a thing go on for this long. 

But his eyelids flutter and then droop. The sun blinds him. He thinks he sees a flash of blonde hair. He can't help her. He's too weak now.

Norman sleeps.

From the side of the bed, Mother brushes his hair back. She feels tired too, but her work isn't done, not nearly. 

Maybe she'd make that smoothie Norman wanted earlier.

"Don't worry, Norman," she whispers as memories blur and fade into nothing in his mind. "We took care of it."

 

PART III 

_"We're supposed to be together, aren't we, Norman?"_

_"Yes we are, Mother. Forever."_

-

Her fake death liberates them.

For a while, things are good. She keeps her boy sated with food and music and soft kisses in a tangle of sheets. She tends to the house, tends to Norman as she always has, wears her love wounds proudly. For a while, it's anything and everything for Norman. 

And then it starts to eat at her. 

She keeps her mask firmly in place but when Norman leaves for the motel office every morning, dissatisfaction hollows out her chest, spreads like a disease. She gets nothing done. Without him near her, her tenuous hold on happiness weakens as it always has. 

Sometimes, she sneaks out. 

Norman is her entire world but when she watches her son walk toward the motel, away from her, she's struck with a keen sense of longing for the outside world. The sheer curtain falls. This should be the end of it. She's a good mother. A good wife. But then she's doing her make-up, picking out a cute outfit and hat. Gripped with the thrill of impulsivity and freedom, she steps outside, breathes in the early afternoon air. The motel has one guest, a lost vacationer who'd checked in early that morning. It's unlikely Norman will need her. She gets behind the wheel of her Mercedes, gets a stiff drink at a bar, gets a pretty boy wrapped around her littlest finger, and gets fucked in the back seat. She tops. And when she's done she sends her toy away with a smirk. 

The sky is dark and there's an apple pie cooling on the counter when Norman comes home. "Mother?" he calls, and the tremulous tone of his voice makes her abandon the table setting and rush to him. Her hands cup his face, caressing his overly warm skin.

"I— I had another blackout, Mother," Norman laments, shaking. "I can't remember anything since this morning."

"Oh," she says. Flatly. Pulls her hands away as guilt tramples her earlier feelings of satisfaction. The sight of Norman's big eyes makes her drop them to his arms, where she rubs circles into his biceps. Words stick in her throat.

She pulls him to her and he drops his head to her shoulder. "I don't feel well," he mumbles.

Her lips find his hair, covering him with kisses. She rubs his back. "Don't worry," she murmurs. "Please try not to worry, okay?" She kisses his cheek, sweet and lingering. "I'll— I'll take good care of you, I promise."

After a few minutes, he straightens, says, "I think I'll lie down a while."

"Okay, sweetie. I'll bring you some dinner soon."

As she watches him limp up the stairs, her good feelings dissipate. She can handle a little isolation for Norman. She has to. 

-

Time passes. To the rest of the world, she's been dead for almost two years. But people still come for Norman. She kills for him. Again and again and again. It helps both of them. Distracts her, renews her purpose. Gives her someone else to talk to that isn't her son— for a few moments, at least. Protecting Norman solidifies their bond for her and she buries what traumas resurface at the sight of blood.

One of the benefits to being dead is that no one can ever hurt her again. Or so she thinks— until Norman, over a nice, respectable dinner, tells her about some woman he met over paint colors. 

Oh, he denies it, of course. _She's married, Mother_. But no matter how much she has tried to teach him about the world, Norman is easily swayed by beautiful women. It's easy to see the truth.

She'd like to think she's gotten over her volatile relationship with sex. But it's Norman's immature sexuality that unsettles her, the notion that he could even resemble other men in his true desires. No. Norman just needs her guidance, her protection. The love she has so freely given him. It's not her. It's not Norman, either, not truly. It's other people and their manipulation. 

Her trusting, sweet, wonderful boy will be the death of her.

His insistence that this woman is innocent, that he would even dream of letting her into their world— someone _else_ , someone he barely knows— drains her appetite. He says some nonsense about 'appreciating' how she practically gave up her life for him and that makes her retreat to her room. 

_No dessert for you, brat,_ she seethes, and sinks onto her bed. 

She and Norman have had their first real fight in years, and all because some whore tried to poison his mind. Not on her watch. Never again. Arguing with Norman always leaves her feeling horrible. Detached from him somehow, the chord between them threatening to fray. But as she sits alone on her bed and glares hard at the closed door, she considers again how unfair Norman is being and tears tremble in the corners of her eyes. 

He is free to come and go as he pleases and yet he has the audacity to complain. Her son is an ungrateful child but she loves him even as anger stews heavy in her heart. 

And he dares to think he can love someone else. Leave her here to rot in this house after all she's sacrificed for him.

Not until she sees the door open does she realize she's been waiting for him.

Norman hovers at the doorway. "Mother?"

"Yes, honey, come in. Sit with me." She pats the space in front of her and, after a moment too long, Norman moves into the room and sits stiffly on the bed, hands balled up on his thighs. He waits and she knows he's thinking so she gives him space. 

"I wanted to apologize for upsetting you earlier," Norman murmurs, and turns to place a gentle hand on her cheek. "I love you. I don't ever want to be one of those people who causes you pain. If anyone deserves happiness, it's you, and I never wanted to ruin that." 

She lets her eyes slip shut and even that action proves she can never truly hate him. Never truly lose the trust they've built throughout their life together. 

But she can feel Norman's hesitation. It'll make things worse for the moment but she says it anyway. Best to get it over with now.

"Promise me you won't see that girl anymore."

Norman sighs, "Mother," and goes to drop his hand. She traps it there with hers. If he's going to do this, she won't make it any easier for him. 

" _Promise me_."

"I can't do that."

"You _need_ to let go of her, Norman. She's not good for you. You're so sweet, you can't see how dangerous other people can be."

Norman huffs and pulls his hand out of her grasp. "Well— well you're not over that sheriff. I know you're not. And we both know what kind of man Romero turned out to be. Don't we, Mother?"

She wants to slap the knowing look off his face, but folds her hands in her lap instead. She ignores the usual flood of emotion that comes whenever Norman hurls her most recent failed relationship back at her. Sadness, anger, embarrassment . . . 

She lifts her chin. "That's different."

"How is it 'different', Mother?"

"Because I chose you, damnit!" 

They both stare, a little stunned at her outburst, the truth of it. Norma lowers her voice, slipping fully into Mom-Mode in an effort to regain control of the situation. "You do not get to lecture me, okay? You do not get to throw something like that me in order to get your way. You have shown time and time again that you cannot handle other women. You are _too easy_ to take advantage of! All I want to do is protect you and you're making things so much harder on me."

Norman blinks, eyes glassy. And when he moves again, he looks down to swallow against his tears. 

She sighs, anger melting away at the sight of her boy suffering. Locking her hands behind his neck, she pulls him close enough to press their foreheads together. "I'm sorry, sweetie. But you're gonna have to choose eventually and if you love me, we both know what that choice will be. I'm just trying to make it easier on you, okay, kiddo?"

In answer, Norman only sobs. She pulls back to wipe away his tears. 

"Norman. Honey." Sitting back, she gathers one of his hands in both of hers. "It is just _you_ and _me_ against the _entire world_. No one has ever helped us. No one has ever cared for us the way we do about each other." She catches his gaze, holds it, squeezes his hand. "No one has ever loved either of us the way we have loved each other." Norman inhales shakily and nods, understanding. "Now, I've tried. And— and you've tried. But it hasn't worked in the past and it won't work now. It might be— _easier_ with that Madeline girl but, Norman, she can never truly accept you. She can never truly love you." She brings one hand up to smooth Norman's hair back, caressing his temple. "Not the way I do. So you need to forget about her, Norman. Focus on what you know. You and me and the love we have for each other— that's the only thing in this world that's real. The only thing you can count on." She kisses Norman, gentle and sweet. Then she pulls back, knowing he will follow. It is instinct, fate. They end up lying back with him on top of her, her hands linked at the dip in his spine. His mouth finds hers, movements clumsy with overwhelm, but she takes control of the kiss and guides him the way she always does. "I love you, Norman," she whispers. 

"I love you too, Mother," Norman murmurs against her mouth. "I love you so much." He kisses her again, hard, and she moans into it. In between kisses, he says, "I'm so sorry. I don't know what I was thinking. You were right. You're always right." She can't help but smirk into the kiss. "I want to be with you forever," he says. "You're the only one I've got. And you're all I need."

-

She wakes up alone. Moonlight shows the empty space beside her; she's covered in goosebumps and she knows he's been gone for a while. Shivering, she gets up and pulls on a robe, considers, for a moment, going to him naked, but abandons the idea. 

There's a silence about the house at night that doesn't startle her until the first stair creaks under her weight. Running a hand through her hair, she breathes in. _Silly_ , she thinks. And then, as she descends: _It's because Norman isn't here_. But by the time she makes it to the first floor, there's the persistent ticking of the clock and the hum of the refrigerator and she feels a little better, a little more in control. She goes into the kitchen and makes hot chocolate in the dark, carries two warm mugs into the basement. A peace offering. 

"Norman?" she calls. There's no answer. His workspace is unoccupied. The freezer glows white and glaring in the dark, but she ignores it and its contents in favor of moving to stand in the open doorway of the bigger, walk-in freezer. 

The sight of the alter he's created for her is breathtaking. Or perhaps that's just the biting cold. The room smells of flowers and smoke. Norman's stuffed animals— mostly birds— are everywhere and she can't bring herself to tell him to remove them, not when they pale in comparison to his biggest preservation. Not when she looks like a queen and feels the part, adored in any way Norman can offer. Still, she doesn't want this for him. He should be above ground at the very least, not shrouded by dark thoughts and the shadows lurking between the flicker of candle flames. 

And there is Norman low on his knees with his arms around her skirts and cheek resting on her lap. His eyes are hollow and opaque. 

Mother's hands tighten on the handles of the mugs. They burn her skin.

She goes to kneel beside him. Her legs fall into the position like she's been here before. The ground is unforgiving on her knees, but she does it. She doesn't touch the body. A want for intimacy pulls at her, but she can't bring herself to rest her head the way Norman does. Something about Norman's easy familiarity upsets her and she's unafraid to admit it. And her hands are full, besides. She looks up into the eyes of Norma Bates and feels a mixture of rage, love, and intense sadness. In her periphery, Norman looks up too. His expression is so open. Dreamy. She isn't sure if she just wants him to look at her like that— her in this form, with a beating heart— or if she's jealous Norman can feel the way he does here, let his guard down so completely. 

She stiffens, huffing in sudden irritation. Her muscles ache and the thin material of her robe is not enough. Wanting distance, needing to move, she stands quickly and backs up toward the door.

"Come on, Norman. It's too cold in here." Her voice comes out sharper than she means it to but it makes him stir, draws his eyes toward her. Her shoulders relax.

When he responds, his voice reminds her of a child's. "Mother?" 

"Come on."

Norman stands. It's a deliberate process, an effort. His lips are blue. He's been like this for hours. When he manages to, he takes a step toward her and then another and another.

"Mother, what are you—?" 

She pushes the mug into his hands and takes a sip from her own. "Mmmm."

Norman blinks, then mimics her action robotically. There's a fine tremble to his movements that concerns her but even now his eyes are a little clearer, his voice more assured. His mouth curls into a smile. "I had the loveliest time with you, Mother."

For some reason, this startles her. Because she realizes she should know exactly what he means and yet she doesn't. She raises the mug to her lips, grimaces around a sip of hot chocolate, and sighs. This room, no matter how well cared-for, suddenly has her feeling trapped. Out of control. And that cannot be allowed. 

She steps forward to wipe chocolate off of her son's upper lip before an impulse to kiss him warms her from the inside out. The kiss is brief, but she pulls away feeling a little better. "Norman, let's just go."

"But why? I mean we were just—"

Norman turns to look behind him but she stops him with a hand on his cheek. The overhead lights stutter. Their mother's corpse— _my corpse; that's me!_ — stares with depthless blue eyes, lashes stuck open and tangled with delicate patterns of frost. Her very essence is one of accusation, hurt, and a capacity to recognize only Norman's presence or lack thereof, and little else. 

The body makes her shiver as much as she is drawn to it, and it's suddenly very important to get Norman out of here. Before his eyes stare wide and at nothing.

"Let's go." 

"Why?" There's a challenge in his voice that sets off warning bells. 

She sets a hand on her hip and levels him with a no-nonsense stare. "Because I said so." 

Color rises in Norman's cheeks, and with it, defiance. "No. No, I don't think I want to."

She inhales against her rising panic. "Oh, please, Norman. You need to let me take care of you. You'd be a popsicle by now if I hadn't come." 

Norman blinks, then shakes his head, confused. "No— no, I want to stay here with—" He lets the sentence end there as if it is complete. _You._ _Her._ He shrugs. The smile he gives her is soft. That's a love-struck look. She's seen it countless times. "I feel . . . calmer here."

 _I can do that,_ she thinks. Hopes. 

But her heart tells her she's his knight, not his comfort. The anger she carries has made her too harsh, too desperate. She will defend Norman and love him with all she has, but in the darkest hours of the morning, her boy will retreat to the cellar and kneel for succor she is unable to provide. For some reason, she is not enough for him. Mother in the basement doesn't argue with him. Doesn't push him anywhere he doesn't want to go. 

She brings the mug to her mouth and drains the rest of her hot chocolate. She's trembling now. It's hard to swallow. "Norman," she pleads. 

"Why don't you go back upstairs, Mother?" Norman suggests. He takes the mug from her and sets them both on the floor. His is still full. "You're cold."

" _We're_ cold," she corrects. 

"I'm fine."

"Bullshit, Norman." She slides a hand under his chin, strokes the line of his jaw. She forces a pale, tremulous attempt at a smile. She's seen this work on him before. It has to work. "I want us to leave." Tears pool in her eyes. Tangle in her lashes. She wonders if they'll freeze if she stays much longer. "Please, Norman. We need to leave." 

Norman frowns, alarm breaking through the haze he's under. "Mother?"

A sob builds in her throat and escapes. Her hand goes up to push back her hair. The action grounds her.

She just wants out.

A moment passes. She unties her robe and shrugs it off, lets it pool at her feet. She steps into his space, naked and vulnerable. "I know you," she says, soft. "I love you."

A brush of his mind has her feeling a little more in control. His eyes drink in every soft line of her body before finally setting on her face. She welcomes him— his true fears, desires, hopes. The fleeting and the steadfast. The sweet, unquestioning devotion and the dark, disgusting, _damning_ thoughts. Ones that twist around them both and tighten until the pulse beats hectic and desperate beneath their feverish skin. He would never harm her— they would never harm each other— but he can't hide from her. Not here. Not anywhere. She knows him better than he knows himself.

She does away with the dregs of his confusion, his anxiety. Takes much of the pain upon herself as she always has. Knowing the source of her distress calms her a little. But for the first time in a while, she thinks there's no way in hell she could do this if it weren't for Norman. 

"Okay, Mother."

The chord stretches between their hearts. They feel it. 

And in a freezing room, not two feet from her own corpse, she asks, "Do you love me?" 

Norman's hands reach up to cup her face. She lets him hold her, comfort her.

"Unconditionally," he responds. "Forever." His eyes say 'without all reason'. 

He kisses her. Sweet and warm from the drink and from the depth of his emotions. One day, when he is strong enough to bear some of the pain, she'll tell him how things really work between them. Who she really is. For now, she entangles her hand with his and together they go back to the bedroom. This will be them, now and forever. There's the creak of the stairs, the creak of the bedsprings, and the creak of aging bones as they settle together. If not for her body in the basement, no one would be able to tell mother and son apart.

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes that might give further clarification or insight into my thoughts while writing:
> 
> -I wanted to indicate Norman's age in the first part so I neglected the concept known as childhood amnesia in which you are unable to remember very early years. Norman would have more accessible memories given his young age but his first year, at least, is probably not accessible to him or Mother- but he still learned things at that age as so Mother knows what he knows although she's a little more mature naturally because she is Norma. It's confusing but basically he's about four years old in Part I.
> 
> -In the second part, Mother and Norman are very much the same and as with 'we', things like 'their mother' refer to Norma (Norma is both Norman's Mother and Mother's mother). In part 2, 'Mother' always refers to Norman's alter and not Norma herself. Not yet. Though Norman sometimes switches from 'Mom' to 'Mother' in early years, but you can think of that what you will. :)
> 
> -Mother is bisexual 
> 
> -People with D.I.D. sometimes refer to themselves as 'we'. The spaghetti scene was my way of showing that and why he doesn't do it more often in place of 'I'. Not only does Mother not allow it, but she becomes less obviously present as he ages despite wanting to be. 
> 
> -While Sam Bates has a big effect on Norman, Norma, Mother, and even Dylan, I chose not to feature him explicitly as it would go against Mother's protective streak and Norma's/Mother's denial. Norman has few memories of Sam because he either does something Mother has to block or he's out drinking or sleeping around, especially after a fight with Norma.
> 
> -The scene where they watch a movie together takes place the day after the night Norma tries to leave Sam, or a similar night. Mother keeps a lot of traumatic things from Norman, and Norma keeps him close to her for comfort as always.
> 
> -It felt natural to me to show a lot of their mealtimes because they're the only times Norma feels most 'normal' or 'ideal'. Think traditional 50s style family dinners. Norma tries to stipulate that the entire family absolutely must be present and dressed for breakfast and dinner, something that very quickly falls apart. Sam is either not present or makes meals very tense. He is not missed. Dylan is less present from late childhood onward and so Norman and Norma usually only see him at mealtimes if Sam isn't there. 
> 
> -Mother doesn't approve of Norman's developing sexuality because of Norma's sort of conservative views on it (and trauma and jealousy) but part of the reason he is mildly sexually deviant is because of her. Sexually inappropriate behavior (like nonconsensual voyeurism) is a symptom of D.I.D., and sometimes can arise in victims of trauma. It's not a rule but it definitely applies to Norman here and it was interesting to see Mother's reaction to that. At the same time, Norma also engages in some reckless behavior herself, which influences Mother. Norman's sexual nature and push and pull between Norma, Norman, and Mother is interesting to me.
> 
> -Mother is more emotionally manipulative in part 3 and I wanted to show the true nature of their relationship as much as I could. Mother learned from the very ‘best’.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments.


End file.
